“What on earth is the maisles?” asked Mr Fanshawe. “It’s what the pigs get,” replied Patsy, leading the way down the corridor, “whin they come out all over spots.” “Oh, the measles, you mean?” “That’s thim,” said Patsy, pausing at a door and opening it. “This is your room, Misther Fanshawe; and there’s hot wather in that big blew jug forninst you on the wash-stand.” “You just wait and help me to unpack,” said Dicky. “My man sprained his foot, and I had to leave him behind. Here, lug that portmanteau out from the wall, till I open it.” Patsy did as he was bidden, and then stood by watching the proceedings. “Mr Fanshawe, sir,” said Patsy, after a moment’s silence, “is there guns in thim boxes?” “Which boxes?” “Thim flat ones by the windy.” “Yes; those are gun-cases.” “Mr James said they were; but, sure, they must be mighty small guns to be put in little boxes like thim. Me father’s the gamekeeper, but wan of his guns is twiced the length of wan of thim boxes.” “I daresay; but these are breech-loaders, and take to pieces. How does your father load his guns, Patsy?” “He rams the stuff down the muzzle wid a ramrod. And by the same token, there’s a parcel of ca’tridges for you, sir, I brought over from Castle Knock a week ago. They’re in the kitchen, I b’leve.” “Yes, I ordered them to be sent on here. Put these shirts in that drawer.” “Mr Fanshawe, sir,” said Patsy, as he put the shirts in the drawer, “would yiz like to have a shot at a burglar?” “I shouldn’t mind,” replied Mr Fanshawe. “Stick this coat on the chair over there. What has put burglars in your mind?” “I dunno,” replied Patsy, grinning and scratching his head; “but I dhrimt there was burglars in the house last night, and, thinks I to meself just now, if you was to stick a ca’tridge in wan of thim guns you might have fine sport some night soon, and Paddy Murphy’s back buttons might be blown through his wistcoat same as he blew old Mullins’.” “What on earth are you talking about?” asked Mr Fanshawe. “Who is Paddy Murphy—here, stick those trousers on the chair with the coat—and who is old Mullins?” “I dunno,” replied Patsy, placing the trousers on the coat; “it’s me dhrames that do be addlin’ me. But if me dhrames come true it’s fine shootin’ you’ll be havin’ some night wid all thim guns, and it’s I that’ll be givin’ you the word whin to be loadin’ thim.” “Here, get along!” said Mr Fanshawe, opening a hunting kit-bag. “Put these shirts in that top drawer, and don’t be talking nonsense; put these waistcoats in with the shirts.” “The hounds meet to-morra at Castle Knock. I s’pose you’ll be afther followin’ thim, sir,” said Patsy, as he placed the waistcoats in the drawer. “I will,” replied Mr Fanshawe. “What time’s the meet?”